


Radically Both

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Distant Thunder [3]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sideways: non-sentient puppet/thrall of Unicron, right? <i>Wrong</i>. Identity theft doesn't just happen to humans, my friend - we Transformers can fall victim to it as well. And this is your lucky day! You've just happened to cross paths with me... the real, 100 per cent genuine, accept-no-substitutes <i>Sideways</i>... right when I'm in a talkative mood! So why don'tcha pull up that there bar stool, grab a can of 40-weight and sit a spell. Buddy, have <i>I</i> got a story for <i>you</i>!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radically Both

It’s a big universe for a mech with a processor for profit. That’s me. The name’s Sideways… not that you’ll ever hear anyone, myself included, call me that. I’m a freelance access broker by trade, and a Cybertronian by creation.

Yeah… yeah, I can see the look on your face plate already. “Sideways!” you’re saying, making judgments and thinking all sorts of horrible thoughts. Let’s get this outta the way right now – I _ain’t_ that guy. Truth to tell, he stole _my_ name, while I was away on long-term business, and used it to weasel his way into both the Autobot and Decepticon camps. For that reason, I don’t tend to use my name anymore… nor does anyone else, for that matter.

The fact the purple-and-yellow jerk turned out to be nothin’ more than a puppet thrall of Unicron doesn’t exactly thrill me, I have to admit. Bad for business.

So now you know I’m not some miniature demi-god, you’re wondering about just that – business. That’s always the next question: what does a freelance access broker do, anyway? Well, it’s pretty self-explanatory. My services, which are offered on a freelance basis, provide my clients with access to things they want. Simple.

Sometimes it’s information. Sometimes it’s a person, mech or being. Sometimes it’s an artifact or something precious. My job is to grant them access to their Spark’s desire, by whatever means necessary. That could mean theft, or a rescue mission, or maybe even an old-fashioned kidnapping. Horses for courses, as the humans would say. And yes, some of my best customers are humans. Their governments know a _lot_ more about the Transformers than Optimus Prime and his secretive flunkies like to think.

My fees aren’t all that high. I work for one of two things: Energon, or more access. It’s a kind of bartering system. Money isn’t of much use to a mech like me…but true profit is about more than cash or pretty jewels. If I give you access to something you want, you fill my tank with gas. Or – and this is my preferred option – give _me_ access to something _I_ want. I’ll be sure to tell you what that is before we strike a deal.

Oh… I see where you’re looking – my left arm. Your beady little optics are zeroing in on my faction insignia – the one that slides away, that switches sides. You’re wondering how a Cybertronian manages to be a member of both teams without getting himself slagged along the way. You’re wondering if the insignias are genuine.

Well, they are. As for how I got them… well, come on. I have a delivery to make. I’ll tell you the story along the way.

\-----

They had their skid plates soundly kicked, back at Iacon. Now the Decepticons are less a faction and more a running joke… whipped curs desperate for a chance to reclaim their lost pride.

Imagine ruling a world for nine million years – all but a tiny portion of it. Now, imagine the inhabitants of that tiny portion came out of their hidey-holes, swinging frelling big Energon axes and chasing you off the face of the globe. That’s the situation the Decepticons find themselves in these days… and, to make matters worse, they’re without a leader, too.

Yeah, I know – Megatron may have been melted into a pile of steely slag, but Starscream’s in charge. Whatever that means. As a commander, ol’ Screamer makes a great psychotic murderer. His elite commando squad, the Terrorcons, has gone AWOL… no one’s heard from those bruisers in cycles. Ditto their leader, the mad zealot called Predacon. That’s one mech I wouldn’t want to have off scheming behind my rear superstructure. It’ll be interesting to see if Starscream can hold the ‘cons together better than he can hold their base together.

I approach the orbiting structure in my alt mode. Human customers affectionately call it “the UFO”, and I don’t mind. I’m probably responsible for half of the alien sightings on Earth, given the frequency with which I do business there. You know all that Area 51 garbage? Me. Seriously. One of my depots is in that desert.

But I’m going off on a tangent – I was talking about the Decepticon base. It’s a long, cylindrical kind of thing that was grown, or so I’m told, from the metal of Unicron itself. Now that ye olde Chaos Bringer is dead, its afterbirth is having trouble maintaining structural integrity. Pieces are falling off, left and right, and floating into the ether. I wonder how many of Starscream’s “loyal troops” have found themselves suddenly floating in space, all from turning a corner at the wrong time.

I pause, about a hundred kilometres from the base, and activate my Force Chip. It’s orange and silver, just like the markings on my black bodywork. I got it a while back – during that bit of long-term business I mentioned earlier – from a mech in the outlying Transformer colonies. Gigalonia, Animatros, Speedia… I’ve done business with all their inhabitants, at one time or another. Lost colonies? _Please_. Anyone with half a megabyte of RAM and a compass could find those “lost” civilisations. The Autobots proved that this megacycle, if nothing else.

My Force Chip slides into place toward the rear of my alt mode – as a robot, that section forms my left arm – and does its stuff. My faction symbol switches to the purple angles of the Decepticon brand, while the plates around it pop up to form an internal displacement cannon. Four orange Energon blades jut out from the weapon… as a Decepticon, I’m more heavily armoured than I am as an Autobot.

I’ve always wanted to know why that is. Hopefully, this delivery will put me on the path to finding out.

My transponder beams a hailing signal out to the Decepticon base and transmits the current access codes. The passwords and encryptions for both factions are stored in my onboard database – each side knows it’s in its best interests to keep me in the loop. An astrosecond later I hear the clear, shrill tone granting me permission to dock, and zip toward the hangar bay.

At least, I land in what’s _left_ of it. Frelling hack. I know the Decepticons have fallen on hard times, but it’s something altogether else when you see it through your own scanners. Lights hang from the ceiling at odd angles, empty Energon canisters are strewn all over the place, dead chassis and dying soldiers are stacked, end-to-end, against bulkheads… it’s a mess.

I transform, wincing as I do. Look, it’s not all about smooth motion, this transformation business. There are many things I like about my design, but the way I change modes is not one of them. You try shoving your arms up and around, behind your head, every time you want to move faster than running speed. Yeah… I thought that’d shut you up.

I’ve barely set my feet on the ground when the aft blast doors creak open, permitting entry to the welcoming committee. For a moment, I’m taken aback. Hearing that someone’s come back from the dead is a lot different from running into them and saying hello, you know? Yet that’s what I have to do right now… play nice with the towering, malicious, utterly freaky Soundwave.

He glares at me, all lavender optics over gold mouthpiece. You wouldn’t think lavender could be a threatening colour, but it is…frell, I’d be willing to bet just about anything is oil-chilling, once it becomes associated with Soundwave. The deadliest of the original Decepticons… the killer more remorseless than Megatron, more skilled than Thundercracker, more mechanical than Shockblast, more insane than Starscream. And that’s just the legends. Reality, if possible, is even more chilling.

“The two face,” Soundwave says in that haunting monotone. “Too much to hope you’d perished in the vorns I’ve spent on Earth, then.”

I look up at him, glad for my unreadable face plate. There’s nothing humanoid about my features – my face is just a blank orange screen. Most mechs are unnerved by it. Not Soundwave, of course, but I’m still glad for it… it means he can’t see how frelling frightened I am right now. “Your little holiday’s changed you,” I quip. “You never used to be this talkative.”

He doesn’t respond but, for a second, his eyes flare that little bit brighter. Well, whaddya know – I actually got under that dense armour of his. “Transaction complete?” he asks, and I swear I can hear an undertone of fury coming through. I’m quite pleased with myself, right now.

I hold up a small crystal canister. Inside is a single microchip, a scrap of blue paint clinging to one of its scalded edges. “A transaction has two parts, gruesome,” I say casually. “My part’s done. Now it’s your turn. Access or Energon?”

He visibly rankles, and my fuel pump races happily. The big lug’s stuck fast, and he _knows_ it. Having lost Cybertron, the Decepticons don’t have enough Energon to power a tinker toy. They need the access I’m providing, however, and so they have to pay. That means granting me access to something I desire… and letting go of anything, any scrap of information, is anathema to the mighty Soundwave. Just like all collectors, he doesn’t want anyone else getting their grubby servos on his delectable trinkets.

Too bad, so sad.

“Access,” Soundwave spits, “though I cannot grant it.”

“Always the second banana,” I sigh, immediately regretting my choice of words. Torquing the stoic giant’s circuits is one thing… going out of your way to annoy him is suicide. Amazingly, he doesn’t rise to my foolishly offered bait, save for that same flashing of the optics. He turns, jerks a thumb angrily toward the blast doors, and walks away. I follow, a couple of steps behind.

The rest of the base matches the hangar bay perfectly. It’s _all_ squalid. There are no dead carcasses here, though you need to look closely to make sure. Two small mechs I don’t know are lurking in the corner, whispering to one another. From their design I can tell they’re Gigalonian, though it’s been a while since I saw anyone from the purple planet with such small bodies. Demolishor is snoozing in a narrow tube that I realise is a decommissioned missile pod. His permanent partner-in-mischief, Snowcat, is dozing on what used to be the firing console. Neither sleeping cycle looks particularly comfortable… at a guess, the Decepticons are powering down in shifts to conserve what little Energon they have left.

Slugslinger is leaning against the corner. His rictus-split face looks even more hideous in these surrounds… like the devil has finally found a hell to his pleasing. I glance at whom he’s talking to and my fluids chill. One of the mechs is utterly massive, easily half the size of Tidal Wave. Most of his body is orange, with streaks of green camouflage running across the amber metalwork. Red optics peer over ebony face plates, while the long cannon perched on his shoulder glows a dull purple. His companion is much smaller but no less frightening. He doesn’t stand but, instead, hovers a few feet above the floor, his arm-mounted rotors hissing almost inaudibly. His dark colouring belies his name.

Tankor and Obsidian: the warlords of Kalis. For nine million years, they held Cybertron’s main Energon storage pits in an iron grip, making the area totally impenetrable to Autobot incursion. Obsidian is a tactical genius bar none – even the missing Shockblast pales in comparison to his skills. Tankor, meanwhile, is the perfect combination of berserker and strategist… planning his strikes to the last decimal point, then executing them with savage, unrelenting fury.

Over the vorns, I’ve heard many rumours about these two. It’s even been suggested they draw their success and abilities from… mystical sources, for want of a better term. Irrespective, the fact these two survived the debacle at Iacon… and have sided with Starscream… bodes ill for the future.

Which, in turn, will keep me in a job.

I turn my attention back to the walk, and then inward. Remember earlier, when I said there were lots of things I loved about my design? Here’s another one… and keep it to yourself, because it’s a secret. See the way my alt mode’s nosecone juts outta my chest as a robot? Looks pretty dorky, right? Add these whanging great tuning forks on either side of my cranium and you’d be forgiven for thinking I’d been designed by a Japanese toy manufacturer.

But if you think a little harder about it – and most mechs don’t, which is where my advantage lies – it’s actually the best configuration possible for a freelance access broker like me. It means my radar system is _always_ on and _always_ pointing forward, giving me all sorts of juicy titbits for later use. As for my head… well, when I transform, it ends up as part of my cockpit. And what’s in a cockpit that’s of great use? Yup… the black box flight recorder. We Cybertronians have them, too, though they only kick in when we’re in vehicle mode. ‘Cept for me, of course… the “tuning forks” are constantly channelling data to my flight recorder, for later use and analysis.

Because of all this, I’ve just located what I need to complete my next contract.

Starscream’s laughable “command centre” is off a rickety ramp that spans a ravine. For whatever reason, he’s opted not to take over the one formerly occupied by Megatron… maybe it’s already floated away. The lithe and powerful warrior sits hunched over a desk, looking nothing like an aerial combatant. “What?” he barks without looking up.

“The item you requested,” Soundwave says, not using my name or making any reference to me whatsoever. “It has arrived. Access is required in return.”

“Whatever. Whatever!” Starscream snaps irritably. “Just get the sample down to the lab and get the project underway already! Do I have to think of everything around here?”

 _That is the job of a leader_ , I think, but don’t say aloud. I’d rather not talk to Starscream. During the time I served with the Decepticons, he treated me like cannon fodder. When I spent a vorn or two as an Autobot, he seemingly dedicated himself to blowing me out of the sky. Grudges are bad for business but some mechs, like Starscream, get to you no matter the barriers you create for yourself.

“This way,” Soundwave tells me.

I’m led back over the bridge and down a left-bending corridor. There are hurried patches and bad welds all over the place… perfect. My radar pings as I walk past a chamber, and I know this is going to go off without a hitch. Especially seeing as the thing I’ve asked for is right next door to that chamber. Soundwave all but shoves me into a small, windowless room. It’s Spartan, except for a terminal and a chair. “Access,” he grouses as he leaves.

I make a show of tapping the keys, for more anyone who happens to be listening, and do an infrared one-second dump of the terminal’s data. Honestly, this rag-tag bunch of losers has nothing worth accessing. I took this job simply to get close to the item in the next room, and get the real pay-off by retrieving it… but I never say no to access.

Slinking across to the adjoining wall, I make a couple of quick calculations. Satisfied, I flex both of my ankle joints. My wings flick up from my heels and snap into my hands, forming a double-bladed sword. Three quick cuts give the decaying section all the encouragement it needs to slough off the base and begin to twist in the void. As the vacuum hits, I engage electromagnets in my feet and hang on, screaming falsely.

Tidal Wave is in the room in seconds – guess the big guy’s still running on anger. He snatches me roughly with one hand and makes a diving grab for the freed room, but it’s too far away. Grunting with the effort, he turns around and claws us back into the corridor, slapping at the emergency door seal. The heavy iron barrier clangs shut just as the terminal room breaks away, too.

“Third one this cycle,” Tidal Wave growls. “I hate this place. Damn Starscream.”

“Speak of the devil,” I say lightly as the Decepticon commander rounds the corner. Soundwave is at his side, ever the dutiful servant. Neither of them looks happy.

“The munitions room!” Starscream wails. “Oh, this is _perfect_!”

I leave them to their loss and make my own way out, after stopping to thank Tidal Wave for… ahem… saving my life. In this business, you curry allies where you can, and the big guy’s hatred for Starscream will likely come in handy down the track. There’s no way anyone can connect me to the latest victim of headquarters leprosy… even if there had been a camera in the terminal room, it would have shorted out the moment I walked in. I have that kind of effect on non-sentient electronics. It’s a gift.

Wincing and transforming, I soar out of the hangar bay and into space. The Decepticons aren’t going to bother trying to reclaim their munitions room – towing it back is well beyond their resources. Only Tidal Wave has the necessary strength and, judging by the base, they need him to stay in peak condition. Give it a cycle or two and they may have to start operating out of him. That gives me all the time I need to get into the floating chunk and take what I need for my next job… after I wait a while.

\-----

It takes six Earth hours for the room to float out of scanner range, but that’s okay. I never take contracts that include deadlines, and my clients know this. Access is something special and unique… you can’t just conjure it up on demand. It takes time, and anyone worth being my employer understands this. Those who don’t, well, they just don’t get called back.

Finding the item in question is simplicity itself. You’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb to miss an enormous, jagged, purple-and-white sword in amongst a room full of guns and bombs. I fire a magnetic coupling line and snag the Star Sabre, preparing to tow it behind me. It’s kinda ironic, really… Megatron steals this thing from the Autobots, and then the fake Sideways steals it from him. The real Sideways now steals it back from a bunch of Decepticons who don’t value it anywhere near as much as their leader did. Guess their contempt for the Mini-cons that comprise the weapon blinds them to its potential. Fools.

Access secured, I change course for Cybertron. Certain parties are going to be very happy to see this weapon again… or, more accurately, to see Sonar, Runway and Jetstorm again. Sparkplug, Over-run and the other Mini-cons promised me a very desirable data file in exchange for rescuing friends they haven’t seen in four years. I wonder if the Air Defence Team will even remember their old compatriots, having spent all that time in their non-sentient weapon mode. Still, that’s hardly my concern. I disengage my Force Chip and will it back into subspace. My Autobot insignia defaults back into place as I blast a tightly-encoded data beam to my home world, letting the Mini-cons know I’m on my way with their friends.

“Help us… someone, anyone, please…”

The voice crackles faintly through my communicator. Damn – didn’t realise I’d left it open to pick up ambient noise. It’s pretty obviously a distress signal, and so I whip my sensor arrays around to find out where it’s coming from. The source located, I do a quick double take… there’s no way this can be for real.

Between the Decepticon base and Cybertron is one of those gas giant planets. It’s called Basfian, and it’s a nasty place. Most of the gas whirls around a central vortex that gives the planet its distinctive “intergalactic milkshake” look, and those winds are high-speed and high-danger. You’d have to be missing a whole circuit board to even think of going near the vortex… let alone piloting a research vessel into the heart of it. It would appear, then, that a group of explorers in a tiny silver craft are in dire need of upgrading.

The ship is bumping around the outer edges of the Basfian vortex – not in the realm of certain death, just yet, but definitely looking it in the eye. If it had a little more power, a slightly better design… frell, it if was anything other than a flying brick… it could probably pull out of those winds and make for the ionosphere. Trouble is it’s a research vessel, probably intended for long-distance quasar studies. They got in the face of the wind and, as the humans would say, are going to reap the whirlwind. And they’re gonna get slagged unless someone does something, and fast.

Yeah. Someone who’s nearby and has the requisite design, speed and flight power to…

…

Aw, frell.

I detach my tow line and mark the Star Sabre with a signalling buoy, so I can find it if it drifts off. Then I shut down all my gee-whiz gadgetry and divert all power to engines, shields and avionics. I’m only going to get one shot at this, so it had better count. No room for error and, unlike freelance access brokering, one hell of a timetable. I just hope there aren't too many people on board that ship, ‘cause I don’t have a lot of cabin space.

“Hold tight,” I broadcast as I make my way down to the ship. “I’m inbound on your vector. Throw all your engines to full reverse and gather your crew at one point that’s easily accessible from the hull. You’re gonna have to board me at high speed, and in one go. No second chances, guys.”

“Oh sweet Pravitark, thank you,” comes a relieved voice. Judging by the name of the deity, the speaker isn’t a local. “Who are you, to risk yourself for ones such as us?”

Bristling only slightly, I lie. “I’m an Autobot,” I say, thankful for the insignia swap. “Everything’s gonna be fine now, trust me.”

Okay, so you’ve caught me out. The real reason I can’t work to a timetable is my uncontrollable altruism. It doesn’t matter what’s going on – damsel in distress, society on the edge of genocide, cat stuck in a tree – I _have_ to help. I literally can’t stop myself. I can be in the middle of the coldest, most clinical business deal I’ve ever made and bam! I’m off saving someone’s life. One moment I’m cheating someone out of their livelihood, and the next I’m defending some Podunk village from heathen marauders.

Stop looking at me like that. It’s _not_ a Jekyl and Hyde kind of thing, okay? I know exactly what I’m doing and I never act grudgingly. This is just… what I do. It’s me. I’ve never professed to understand it but, when there’s a need for action, I take the action. Simple as the rest of my life.

I catch up with the science vessel as it hits the edge of the vortex. Instantly, big chunks rip out of the ship and spin away. Must be my day for crumbling space craft. I zip in between the debris and pond-hop my way to the silvery ship. A hatch pops open as I draw close, and I can see six reptilian figures clad in space suits. “Don’t move!” I yell, hoping their communicators will pick me up. “The wind’s too strong!” One of the lizards gives me a thumb… or claw… up, and I know the message has gotten through.

Then, I do something crazy. Trusting in the strength of my design, I change vectors and slam nose-first into the side of the ship. It hurts like the Pit, but I don’t take any major damage. The lizards are wide-eyed but more than happy to scarper across my nosecone – claws and magnetized suits giving them traction – and into my cockpit. When the last one’s aboard, I shunt my cannon into place and fire once, knocking the crippled ship off of me and giving me a nice reverse kick. I spin as I move and, seconds later, we’re kissing Basfian’s ionosphere.

“Praise be to Pravitark!” the reptiles squeal, and they praise my name a few times, too. I keep quiet… I always feel a little bashful after these incidents… and refuse their offers of remuneration or heroic receptions on their world. All I ask is they help me re-attach the Star Sabre to my rear linkage assembly, which they do gratefully. Two hours later, I drop them at a friendly spaceport and make all speed for Cybertron. Not because I’m working to a timetable, of course, but because I’m now all the more antsy for my fee. After that, some lingering questions of mine _really_ need answering, and the Mini-cons hold the proverbial quiz book.

\-----

For the first time in nine million years, I don’t need clearance to enter Cybertronian air space. Either the Autobots are going to be a lot more relaxed about this sort of thing, or they have yet to get around to beefing up their security. There’s a rumour going round that one of their own got slagged on Earth, just a cycle or two ago… they’re probably all in shock right now. Silly fools. Death comes to all, the trick is living right until then.

Sparkplug and Over-run meet me, as arranged, at the very top of the Tower of Pion. It’s been a good long time since I saw the surface of Cybertron, but I’m not sentimental enough to stop and take pictures. It’s enough to see the fabled golden city in such a pristine state, to know everything I’ve heard is true. Maybe this race of mine has a chance of seeing the future after all. Heck, it’d be nice to have _some_ company at the end.

Few words are exchanged – Mini-cons aren’t known as great conversationalists, at least not with larger Transformers. Centuries of persecution and slavery will do that to a mech. Sparkplug takes the Star Sabre and looks at it gravely, likely already wondering if his friends are still somewhere within the powerful weapon. Over-run hands me a data pad, its encryption already disabled. “Access,” he says, and I nod.

The best place to view this data, I figure, is on Cybertron’s new moon – the decapitated head of Unicron. The bestial visage spins around slowly as it moves, occasionally favouring its ancient enemy with a frozen expression of madness and fear. I settle down, rest my aching back against one of the Chaos Bringer’s horns and sift through the data.

… oh wow.

Yes. That explains it _all_.

I’d heard, from pretty reliable sources, that Optimus Prime had learned a few home truths about the Transformer race – answers to old questions of genetics versus politics. Being the sort of leader he is, Optimus had then shared this data with his troops and even recorded it in the central archives for all Autobots to read, when they were ready to hear the facts of the matter. Being strictly non-allied, I’d need someone to give me access to such documentation… and all it took was returning three Mini-cons to their brethren.

Why did I want this information? Come on… you’re smarter than that. You’ve been hanging out with me for the last cycle or so – you’ve seen what I’m like! I come off all cool, calm and collected but, let’s face it, I’m a bit of a screw up. I’ve been an oily conman from the moment I came on line, yet I can’t resist helping an old lady across the street – especially if she’s about to get hit by a bus. This duality in my nature is so odd, so unconventional, and so downright weird it just can’t be natural, right?

Wrong.

According to the Autobot’s files, every Transformer Spark is a combination of two forces: creation and entropy. The mixing of those two primal elements defines who we are and how we act… whether we tend toward chaos or order. Mechs like Grimlock are tipped _just a little more_ toward chaos, and so become overly-violent Autobots. Then you have mechs like the late Megatron, who are so far into the chaos spectrum they try to possess dark gods for the fun of it.

So what does this say about my nature? Heh… I’m a fifty-fifty split, baby. If I could take out my Spark and weigh it, I’ll bet you access that I’d come in at half chaos, half creation – forces in balance. It’s why I’ve never been able to choose a side, and why I can be both grifter and shining knight. It’s why my Decepticon symbol brings out my heavy ordnance, while my Autobot symbol increases the sensitivity of my sensors… so I’m listening out for those in need.

I don’t pretend to be an Autobot or a Decepticon… I’m both. Radically both.

If I had a mouth, there’d be a slow, satisfied grin spreading across it right now. I feel elated, relieved, in control. There’s no prime directive governing my actions, no will of a “god” deciding my destiny. Unlike each and every other member of my species, I’m a free agent with total control over what I do. I’m almost like a human, when you think about it.

Take a moment, if you will, and think back over everything I’ve accomplished in my career… heck, in the last cycle, while you’ve been following me around. Look at the ways I’ve played people, look at the lives I’ve saved. Think of it. Now think of what I can pull off knowing I am, truly, both Autobot and Decepticon.

Yeah… you _are_ a smart one. Like me, you know business is about to take off.


End file.
